He’d said a lot of things while we were growing up.
He’d told us men were born of trees, and that the world had ended five times since Musepell. Once in ice, once in plague, once in wind, and twice in fire. We’d thought him proud and more than just a little mad.
“You’re never beaten,” he’d say, when we’d whine about losing. He’d pound his fist on the table. “Du er norsk.”
And then the cruise in my fiftieth year: Grandfather was long in his grave, so far from his homeland. We crossed the ocean, to finally see the land he’d spoken of. A land of ghosts and giants and trolls, of winter-long night—where the resurrection god danced light upon a glacier-frayed shoreline, where the undefeatable city rose anew from ash and loss.
And now that I’ve seen Hammerfest, I’d have to say: the old man was right.
This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. This week’s location was suggested by Alicia over at Up From the Ashes. To read more flash fiction inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click the froggy button: